Waiting: Advent

Families waiting to visit with the one and only Santa Clause at Silverton UMC.

Advent always begins with waiting, but I’m not sure I ever realize how much waiting we actually do this time of year until we’re deep into it. For our family, these early days of Advent in our family have been full—full of the usual traditions, the yearly rhythms we’ve come to love, the little markers that tell us Christmas is on its way.

We’ve been selling Christmas trees at my son’s school tree farm for their annual Christmas Tree sale, welcoming neighbors and friends as they search for the tree that will soon stand glowing in their living rooms. We’ve been decorating each of my churches for Advent—hauling out boxes of greens and candles, banners and garlands, transforming ordinary spaces into places that whisper, “Something holy is coming.”

At one of my churches we stand on our church lawn bundled up in coats and hats, waiting in a crowd of families who were all doing a bit of waiting, too. We wait as we watch Santa ride into town, light the community tree, and then follow him as he arrives at our own church—greeting children, listening to their stories, and bringing joy and magic that fills our sancturary space with wonder. And families wait to see Santa and greet him for the season. And in between the busyness, we curl up on the couch together with Christmas movies we’ve seen a dozen times, quoting lines before they happen and laughing at the same moments, because familiar joy is part of the rhythm of this season.

All of this is good. All of this is holy, in its own way. And woven through every moment is one simple truth: Advent is a season of waiting. There is so much waiting in all of this.

We wait for trees.

We wait for the lights to turn on.

We wait for the laughter, for the cookies, for the fun.

We wait for the schedule to settle down.

We wait for the feeling that everything is “ready.”

We wait for the moment we can simply exhale.

Waiting and preparing are stitched into the fabric of our lives. Long before December arrives, we wait for test results, for job calls, for healing, for clarity, for strength. We wait for relationships to mend. We wait for the world to soften its sharp edges. We wait for peace to find its way into our homes and our hearts. for clarity in a confusing time. We wait for justice to roll down in places where it feels long overdue. We wait for the world to look anything like the one God longs for.

Advent doesn’t ask us to escape that waiting. Advent asks us to see it differently—to hold it with gentle hands and open hearts, as if it is leading us somewhere, shaping us, preparing us.

Because Advent isn’t only about waiting for a baby in a manger. It is about waiting for the fruition of God’s love in this world—right here, right now. We wait for justice in an unjust world. We wait for hope in weary places. We wait for signs that compassion can still change us, that mercy can still surprise us, that love is still stronger than all the forces that push against it.

And yet, even as we wait, we prepare. We prepare not because everything around us is perfect, but because we trust the promise at the heart of this season: God’s love is still unfolding. Still coming. Still being born.

We don’t often think of waiting as sacred. It usually feels like the space between where we are and where we’d rather be. But Advent reminds us that waiting is its own spiritual practice. In fact, waiting is where we learn to prepare—not just our homes, but our hearts.

Preparing isn’t simply about getting things done. It’s about getting attuned: learning to look for signs of hope, making room for joy, and paying attention to the quiet ways love arrives.

Advent gives us language for this deeper longing. The prophets cry out for peace, for righteousness, for a world reordered by love. John the Baptist calls us to prepare the way, not through frantic productivity, but through turning our hearts toward what matters most. We wait for the fulfillment of God’s love—not because God is slow or distant, but because real transformation often grows slowly, like roots beneath the soil.

And so we keep going with our family traditions, embracing the holy in the ordinary. We set up trees, light candles, share cocoa, hang greens, and lean into every bit of wonder we can find. We do these things not just to get ready for Christmas morning, but to practice waiting with hope. To remind ourselves that even when the world feels heavy, there is a light that is coming—and already shining—in the midst of it.

In all of our preparing, in all of our waiting, may we discover once again that God’s love is already at work, quietly taking root, making its way toward fullness in our lives and in our world. Advent invites us to pause long enough to notice. It invites us to believe that waiting is never empty when God is in it.